


Esprit de Corps

by rapunzariccia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzariccia/pseuds/rapunzariccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only so much time until Game Over, and you're on your last life. On the list of things to do: level up, get the girl, save the world. This would be like, a million times easier if the universe played by the same rules you're going by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Esprit de Corps

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Joey. First time writing POV; I tried to make the language reflect the character, but some stuff probably slipped under the radar. There's probably British and American spellings throughout this, but I tried to keep it as American as possible.

The year is 2014, and the world has gone to shit.

It only took three years. You always thought it would take longer – some indeterminate amount of time in which cities would be levelled spectacularly and natural disasters would bury that wreckage under miles of lava. Maybe it would have been less impressive than that. The sun would have exploded one day when everything was peaceful and given you eight minutes to look upon your shitty pixellated empire with pride before burning up. One of those strange meteors might well have appeared and blown you all away á la the dinosaurs. It would be cool to be found fossilized, you think.

What nobody expected was for aliens to be real. Once upon a childhood you might have believed in monsters – and you've gone back and found old copies of those B-movies, they're even worse than the garbage you knew they were going to be – but that was a long time ago, and sci-fi makes a point of not being real. It's nice to entertain thoughts of invasion from E.T. every now and again, but these things just aren't supposed to exist. Aliens belong in stories, not giant red spaceships that hide from view for far too long. They _absolutely_ aren't supposed to pose as real people and go undetected for decades.

It's been three years since the alien got bored of its disguise and threw her metaphorical cloak away. There was only one of them, and it didn't look at all unfamiliar except for the horns and gray skin, but that didn't stop armies the world over and every human with access to the internet thinking up theory upon theory upon _god damn theory_. A lot of people think her space army is just running late; others say no one seems to mind her presence too much because of space parasites that have climbed into the heads of every person on Earth. You don't have a particular favourite, but you're a little surprised at the lack of anal probe theories. Apparently classics just can't stand up to the test of time.

You think it seems very unlikely that she wants war. Granted, you're no expert, but surely someone that wanted to fight would be, well, fighting. To your knowledge there's been no zappings or vaporisations of any kind, and there's been neither hide nor hair of intergalactic space weapons of any description. She's seemed haughty and distant and the few times you've seen her face broadcast, her lips curved upwards in a most predatory manner. This of course means you trust her so much less than if she was actually going around pointing a flashy ray gun at anyone that crossed her path. 

That hasn't been the case, though. It feels like no time at all has passed since she first revealed herself, and it also feels like the last three years have been the longest years of your life. You don't check meticulously, but you wouldn't be surprised if you're already sporting your first gray hairs. Aliens are real, you continue to be one of the most successful movie makers of the 21st century, and the world is fucking insane. Stranger things have happened, you suppose.

Evening fell a few hours ago. You're lounging about your apartment almost entirely naked with the windows open and the cool air doesn't bother you at all. Summer's been gone a while: you like to think she fled as though fall came a-knockin' because he heard you were fooling around with his best gal. It's actually a relief to have the year drawing to a close – you overheat easily, always have done, and never gotten on well with people who don't have AC in their offices. It gets particularly stuffy in your home, even when the skies are dark and clear, and you haven't had the chance to buy a new fan yet. The last one broke the day summer gave up and let the rains do their thing, and it shouldn't keep slipping your mind, but you've been out of the house a lot lately to write away from a high-rise where kids run up and down the hallways like beasts. The noise makes it impossible to work, and you can't slack on scripts. It annoys you, but not as much as you thought it would the first time you heard them thundering outside your front door.

What does bother you is the way that you can't seem to keep out of sight no matter what disguise you don. Crazier than anything else that's happened in the last three years is the way the media's managed to blow everything up. It was hard enough to walk around before – paps have always taken a shine to you – but now it's something else entirely. They take you, self-professed master of irony, much too seriously. You suppose it wasn't even wholly their fault – you've lurked on forums in your time. You've seen the way fans tout their favourite celebrities and follow the things they say almost religiously. The press just panders to their wants a little more than they did three years ago, and the result has been horrific. Sometimes you wake up and think that the state of the world can't possibly be real, but here it is. It's a Thing, capital fucking T and all, that has happened. You can't help but feel like they've managed to play right into the alien's foreign webbed hands. You wonder for what must be the millionth-and-first time now whether you're walking a path she chose for you.

The blood pulses loudly in your ears like it does every time you consider this. There's nothing wrong with having your opinion taken seriously from time to time, but people are stupid. You're stupid.  
… Okay, you aren't actually stupid, but there's no way your words should have the kind of impact they do. The threat of alien invasion – no matter how unlikely after _three fucking years_ of figurative silence from her end – looms over America and the rest of the world, and shit has been blown _way_ out of proportion. Two years, four months, two days and five hours ago you realised your opinions on foreign matters were considered of higher calibre than the experts in Congress. That was the day you stopped giving interviews.

The world is insane, and you aren't sure whether you're man enough to help bring it back from the edge.

With all the windows open and the television on, you don't feel quite as lonely as you should do. Even on the thirty-fifth floor, the bustle of Houston nightlife isn't exactly hard to hear. Cars honk and screech, the occasional party cheers loudly as they drink themselves closer to absolute intoxication too early in the evening, and some feathery asshole on the roof caws several times. The channel you're half watching has nothing going for it just yet except a brunette talking nonstop into a big microphone. You tune in long enough to hear her say _such an honor!_ in the most saccharine tone you've ever heard, and tune back out again to look at the clock instead. It's almost eight, which means the main event will probably be starting shortly. You think about sitting your ass down on that couch and paying attention to the things being said starting _now_! but you don't trust the rest of the world enough not to speak in the stupidest tongue known to man. You don't trust enough people not to be stupid. It's you and her and no one else.

Some days you don't even trust yourself, but your faith in her hasn't wavered once. Not even when she cocked her eyebrow as high as it could go and proceeded to give the most scathing review your films have ever had the misfortune of receiving.

Instead, the kitchen sings its sweet siren song to you and beckons you away from the TV. There's a Celis White in the fridge that's calling your name, but you don't even bother to uncap it once you squat down and free it from its prison. There's something seriously out of whack with your personal heat, you think, and hold the bottle to your forehead. In summer you need no less than four fans going at any one time – how anyone can go about their business without choking and shrivelling up on the sidewalk makes no sense to you, but fair fucking play to those that can. Winter's tolerable, you guess, you've no need for jumpers or anything, but it's not enough to stop you leaving sweaty footprints across your floors a lot of the time. Hardly the most attractive trait, but it bothers no one except for you, and you're pretty much used to it by now. Almost a year ago you were invited to your partner-in-crime's house and discovered that the far reaches of upstate NY is synonymous with _icy hell_. She'd laughed at your pain, the sadist, and told you to man up. As an afterthought she gave you a thick pullover. You think she knitted it herself, and you haven't worn it since.

It's been close to three hours since she called. She'd been entering New Jersey at the time, and had said so little. You jumped at the chance to fill in the blanks and explained how lucky she was that she'd gotten through, you'd literally _just_ stepped out of the shower. It's like _you_ were the psychic one now, expecting all her calls, and wouldn't that just be a fucking hoot and a half? You gave her four seconds to answer the question before saying her name very carefully, and received a terse _I'm fine_ in response. You'd reflected out loud that the only way she was fine was if she was freaked out, insecure, and neurotic, and had been cut off before you could finish.

She'd said she had a plan.

As you relocate to the living room again and practically melt onto the couch – it really shouldn't be this fucking hot for mid-November – you wonder just what she meant by that. Anything she comes up with is genius, you know that much, but public action is a risky thing in this day and age. You've talked about this. The world is fucked five ways to Jupiter and back and the worst hasn't even come to pass yet: you decided years ago now that you'd both fight, but playing the waiting game is exhausting. Staying inconspicuous is important for the most part, and you aren't sure whether you've ever been so irritated by doing nothing before. She on the other hand is good at this – she's been playing her cards closer to her chest than the bra she wears for longer than you've known her, but that doesn't mean she isn't a wild card on occasion. 

(You'll never forget the utter delight that crossed her face the day you very subtly pinched her ass at a conference you were both attending and told her never to send you a Christmas gift ever again. The doll she'd sent you was _way_ too lifelike, it blinked when you lay it on its side, and stared at you unnervingly when you'd propped it up. It didn't even manage five minutes in your apartment before finding a new home in the bins.)

“... live here on Cipriani Wall Street...”  
The reporter pulls your mind away from manikins of all descriptions and you notice belatedly that they've started giving awards away while your thoughts have been going haywire. You think for the hundredth time that writers have it tough. Who wants a gold sticker on their books when one can have actual physical trophies for work?  
“... jam-packed with the crème-de-la-crème. There's twenty-ten's poetry winner Terrance Hayes with us in the audience somewhere, two-thousand-three's Shirley Hazzard up for nomination again for general fiction, and oh! How could I forget? Up against her is the enigmatic multi-award winning writer known the whole world over – Rose Lalonde!”

You push the volume two bars higher and proceed to ignore the TV entirely. You can't help but be amused. When you asked her about the press a long time back now, she said without hesitation that she'd boycott them. No two ways about that one. Doing so's probably saved her a lot of grief, and even though her silence isn't exactly a new thing, she's likely been mobbed tonight by more journalists than she's seen in a long time. Social situations do not get on well with her. She's the type of person that will sit alone in the dark writing until she realises she's written on the sheets and can't see what she's doing anymore. 

She's an interesting girl, for lack of a better word. You don't think the English language has created a single word able to describe Lalonde yet. It's not like she's antisocial, but she doesn't seem to suit conversation – you have the sneaking suspicion that her assistant was the one that had persuaded her to approach you initially. The sixth time you met – a photo opportunity in the City – you got her to laugh, and she slipped her personal number into your pocket. Someone at the event caught a picture of that, and ever since the press has done all they can to try and expose the relationship they are convinced exists between you.

They say you've seen her naked more times than you have fingers. They're right, in a sense. You know how she walks down the stairs in the morning to her kitchen, how the back of her usually perfectly coiffed hair sticks out until she attacks it with a brush. When she has nightmares, her eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. Once or twice she's croaked something completely unintelligible from the depths of her dreams and the guttural sounds have made you shiver. She's abrasive for a reason, you've learnt, and can't fault her for it because you're exactly the same. You think you might actually love her.

The papers would be more interested in the color of her nipples, and you'd wink and make a show of not saying a word about the times you saw her naked. If speech is silver, silence is gold-leafed horse shit.

The most surprising thing is that you don't even speak that often. You've both more important things to attend to than waste money listening to each other falling asleep. You have films to oversee; she has seemingly endless blank pages to fill with flowing script. Despite this, you keep up to date on the things she does, and you have no doubt she does the same in return. It's something you don't need to discuss. Today has been the result of this hyperawareness of each other's schedules: you've been aware for weeks about the national book awards (despite the way you talk to her, you know where it's held and how many categories there are and how long it would take her to journey from Upstate to the City) and reserved the day off. You've either been asleep or revelling in the sweet freedom doing fuckall has awarded you, and make sure to have the television switched on the second evening properly hit. You'd even done the gentlemanly thing and sent her the best of luck via text before she'd set off on her drive (dont choke tonight). She'd thanked you for your courtesy (I'm aware you own several swords of various origins. Please proceed to hasten away and fuck yourself with any one of them.) and promptly followed up with the most important thing she'd said in weeks. (You'll want to watch my speech.)

You've never asked what she sees when her mind drifts far, far away, and quite frankly, you don't want to know. All that's important to you is that her foresight has never let the two of you down before (and if the meteor-born children haven't touched down yet, you believe Rose when she says they aren't far off, they'll be here soon, and you choose to ignore the way she doesn't look comfortable at all when she says it). If she says she's going to win something, she's going to win. That's how she's always been. Her will is one of the strongest things you've ever seen, and it occurs to you for the first time today that her sort-of omniscience might not have been what made her so certain of her victory ahead of time. Who even _knows_ with broads like her.

The camera pans to the left, and you see gold, but it isn't her. You train your ears back to the show anyway, hoping to see her in the back of a frame. You already know how hilariously disgruntled she'll look, but that doesn't mean you don't want to see it now.  
“Stay with us, viewers at home! We'll be back in a minute to reveal this year's winner of fiction!”  
Of course you tune back in just in time for an ad-break. How typical.

_Expertise from our kitchens and yours!_

It doesn't last long, but it has you frowning hard enough that you almost miss the announcement. It's a single commercial, barely on for twenty seconds, but it's enough to remind you that the real world isn't as fun as it used to be. It's one thing to imagine aliens existing and quite another to know they've somehow managed to cause the world to crumble in real time. While the world's militia are working themselves into a panic so extensive that many nations are completely open and defenceless, the space queen sits back and does nothing. People throw money left right and centre at her, and you realise you have no idea how many people even know that she's Betty Crocker, America's personal homeowner. The way humanity acts, you're willing to bet it's an infuriatingly low number.

“... Lalonde, with her best-selling series _Complacency of the Learned_!”

The TV snaps you out of your agony once again. The camera's focused on her and you watch her walk. Her stride's powerful and her face belies nothing of the apprehension – at least, that's what you _think_ it was – that she displayed to you on the phone earlier. You hate being unable to read her as well as she does you.

Even if she hadn't forewarned you, you'd could have guessed that she'd won. It's not the first time she's been nominated for something and walked away with the best prize in the house, and _Complacency_ is popular the world over. You aren't even sure how she's so sought-after, to be honest. Half the things she writes are barely legible as English. Not that her contribution to the growing resistance isn't appreciated, but it would be nice to read her works and not come away with a headache. You don't even like wizards that much. As she ascends the stairs to the stage you lift the beer to your lips and curse quietly when your teeth knock against the cap. The offending object is lowered to the floor, and she shakes hands with the presenter.

“Thank you,” she says, and you sit up properly, feet on the floor. You're tense all of a sudden, and you push the volume higher by one. “I didn't think I would win today. I'm rather pleasantly surprised. My thanks go to those in the judges' seats, and the many people that took the time to wade through the mires of the _Complacency_. I understand my writing is archaic and onerous at the best of times.”

This draws titters from the crowd, but she shares none of their amusement. Not for the first time, you're amazed at how such an intimidating woman can capture the public's attention and hold it for so long. Lalonde is nothing if not a crowd-pleaser, and you know she hates it.  
She glances to her right, and the man that welcomed her to the stage smiles in encouragement. _This is it_ , you think, and realise your palms are sweaty. On screen, her chest puffs up and remains that way for a long three seconds as she holds a breath. You think her fists might be clenched on the podium.

“I'm aware that recently people all over America – nay, the world – have been coming out in favour of Her Imperious Condescension,” she starts. The camera doesn't shift from her, but you can see the smile on the presenter's face freeze, and you get the feeling the rest of the room has gone dead silent and still in their seats. “Tonight marks the current pinnacle of my success, and enough reporters seemingly unaware of my no-interviews policy have asked me in the last hour and a half where I stand regarding this issue. What better time than now to announce my entire lack of endorsement for both her and her company?”

It's what you were expecting her to say, but it doesn't stop your breath from catching in your throat. The frigidity of the room she's standing in breaks. A murmur ripples through the crowd and the man on stage with her opens his mouth as though to tell her that the time for speeches is over. She ignores him and continues.

“I cannot stress enough that I refuse to be associated with anything Better Crocker related or the pandemonium that Her Condescension has inspired the world over. I also ask both to kindly refrain sending my workplace flyers and advertisements.” She stops speaking to direct the audience a small smile. A strange cocktail of glee and despair wells up inside you. You don't think that's a fake smile. She's actually _enjoying calling the alien out_. You decide to invent a new word to describe this crazy lady. “In the meantime, I shall continue writing, as I ever have. _Complacency_ might be over, but that does not mean my creative spirit has dried up.”

Here she pauses to swallow. Your tongue darts out to wet your lip – it's too damn hot for the end of the year, now your mouth's drying up and everything – and you taste salt. You've been pressing your pointer finger against the side of your mouth without realising.

“I urge everyone to embrace the fictive in whichever medium they feel suits them best. And not just that – to stop and _think_ every once in a while. Please do not forget what makes one educated: reading. Writing.”

Whoever's in control at the broadcast center chooses now to switch cameras. You're looking at her straight on, and she's looking as directly into the lens as she can. All the times she's looked at you suddenly come to mind, and it's been a while since you've felt so uncomfortable – she's always known exactly where you were looking at any given moment, always been able to seek your eyes out and hold your gaze unblinkingly. She's doing it now. There's over a day's worth of solid travelling and an hour's time difference separating you, but she might as well be sitting three feet from you and looking you dead in the eyes. _Damn the shades,_ you think, and then _damn her_ , and by the time you've finished cursing you realise she's left the stage to very smattered and confused applause. You fumble with the remote, accidentally change the channel twice before returning to the awards and rewind the channel by twenty-five seconds exactly. She's still looking at you dead-on.

"Reading. Writing. Rebellion."

**Author's Note:**

> The National Book Awards are a real thing, held (as far as I could find out) on Cipriani Wall St. about mid November each year. The extra names pre-speech are people who have won in past years.  
> I didn't see Dave being such a stickler for state pride he'd drink Lone Star, but he's proud enough of being human and American enough to drink an alternate Texan brew instead. Celis is originally from Austin, TX, and the least cheesy beer name I could find.  
> I've also never seen a B.C. ad so I had to improvise! Congrats on having really unquotable slogans, Crocker Corp. I think that's it for notable research I did for this (Google and Wikipedia are very much my friend. If anything seems out of place, my bad).


End file.
